


all those roads, they lead you here

by SmilinStar



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 16:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12436800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmilinStar/pseuds/SmilinStar
Summary: “I’m not in love,” she retorts, setting the trap.He walks into it willingly.“Oh trust me, Agent Sharpe,” he says with a sad smile, “you most definitely are.”





	all those roads, they lead you here

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Time Canary fic, but there’s a fair bit of Sara/Ava in it, because clearly the show’s setting up for it. I haven’t written in so long, so I’m not sure how this has turned out. Hopefully it doesn’t suck too bad.

 

:::::

 

He’s the first to spot it.

The Beginning.

There’s a flicker of a smile, both fond and amused, on her typically humourless face as she watches the Legends walk away. The background of the moment is picturesque – the Waverider filling most of the horizon, glowing amber as the sun sets over Star City.

But his focus is not on them. And neither is hers.

No. It’s on the back of blonde waves against familiar khaki green, and the determined, almost angry, _most definitely defiant_ , strut of a gait. Recognisable even with the lengthening distance.

It’s a metaphor for something, Rip’s sure, but this version of himself isn’t one for poetry.

The expression on her face sits uncomfortably in his gut. It’s a distinct sense of foreboding lined by an understanding of what’s happening and filled with the knowledge that he certainly has no right to pass judgement.

After all, it takes one to know one.

She finally feels the prickle of his gaze, and turns to looks at him. A fleeting glimmer of guilt and confusion passes over her, and he thinks to himself _oh I know that feeling. Very well, indeed._

“Sir?” she asks, straightening up her spine, all laser focussed and pushing away the remnants of the spell Sara Lance has cast on them both. “What’s your order? Should we go after them?”

He breathes out, looks back into the distance as the Waverider cloaks itself away and answers, “no. Not this time Agent Sharpe. Not this time.”

 

:::::

 

She’s getting a sick sense of enjoyment out of this.

It surprised the hell out of her when it first happened.

The blush that had risen on Agent Sharpe’s cheeks at the casual compliment had definitely been her intention, she just hadn’t expected it to work.

So, she’d stowed that little snippet away, and had used the months that followed to start chipping away at her stone exterior one compliment at a time.

And the result is this:

An arm pressed against her neck, as deadly as a knife (which would have been her first choice of weapon if the roles were reversed), crowded against the wall of the Waverider corridor, and a burst of hot breath in her face as Ava snarls, “stop it.”

“Stop what?” Sara asks, the smirk on her lips tainting any innocence that question could have held.

“You know exactly what!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says, letting her eyes finish the rest of the lie as they fall to her lips and tell her everything she needs to know.

“Rip was right when he said you were trouble.”

The smile that tugs on Sara’s face then is genuine. It comes freely and without thought, but it doesn’t have time to breathe as Agent Sharpe _finally_ surrenders, pressing her into the wall and chasing away her thoughts of the man with a blazing gaze and bleeding heart.

The moment is a culmination of all the tension soaked arguments and unwanted attraction building for months.

A ticking time-bomb that Sara has no qualms in detonating.

She’ll deal with the aftermath later, she decides.

(If at all.)

 

:::::

 

It’s hard not to see it.

The glances and smirks, and the utter lack of discretion that becomes more and more apparent over time.

It surprises him, because it’s _Agent Sharpe_. He’s worked with her for five years now – one of the very first agents he’d hired when the Time Bureau had come to life, an idea born from the ashes of the disgraced Time Masters – and he’s never met a more strait-laced agent. She’s a stickler for rules with a pristine service record, just as immaculate as her uniform and with not a hair out of place.

But this? This has _Sara Lance_ written all over it.

He thinks he should be mad.

He’s not.

He thinks it’s perhaps another word that wouldn’t be amiss in a rhyming couplet.

But he’s not a poet.

And he is most definitely not sad.

He doesn’t watch Agent Sharpe leave as he dismisses her with the details of today’s mission, a Level 4 anachronism that shouldn’t cause her too much trouble, and instead finds himself watching Sara.

The soft curve of her lips is a dagger in his chest and the hand he presses to his tie is just an excuse to rub at the phantom ache.

Of course, she notices him staring. Turns to meet his gaze and he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blush at being caught.

“What?” she asks.

He clears his throat, and holds her gaze, “I want my Agent left in one piece after this, Miss Lance.”

She jerks her head back, mouth opening in surprise. There’s a flicker of confusion and amusement, almost as if she doesn’t know whether to be offended or pleased at the insinuation. She opens her mouth to retort, but he cuts her short.

“I’m not blind. Nor am I stupid.”

Her lips curve into a smirk, “debateable.”

He ignores her. “This isn’t a game. Not to her.”

This time her expression is a little harder to decipher, but there’s a hint of something else glinting in her eyes that fans at dying flames of hope.

“You care about her.” It’s a statement, and he doesn’t deny it.

“I care about you both.”

Her sharp edges soften. “Well you have a funny way of showing it.”

“I had terrible teachers.”

She laughs, and it lights up around him. The stark white walls of the Bureau somehow tinted in warm yellows and oranges now that she’s standing here with a smile on her face. “That you did.”

He shifts on his feet, because he’s not sure he’s made his point, and it’s important. So important that he hears her. “Sara-”

“Relax. I hear you. Though,” she adds, the smile turning sad, “I think it’s me you should be worrying about here.”

She turns around and leaves him with those words. Doesn’t wait around to hear his murmured reply.

_“I always do.”_

 

:::::

 

“This doesn’t change anything.”

“I never assumed it did,” Sara lies.

She’d hoped, of course, but then the self-loathing that twists Ava’s lips is painfully familiar, piercing that cursed emotion through the heart every single time they do this.

And so she watches. Watches the back of her, bra straps disappearing from view as she slips her previously crisp white shirt back on. Watches as arms reach up and wind long strands of hair into a quick, non-fussy, regulation bun. Watches as she spins on the spot, eyes scouring her room for the jacket she so carelessly pushed off her shoulders last night and kicked across the floor.

“Are you going to tell him?”

The question leaves her mouth without thought. As if it had been lingering there on the tip of her tongue, hiding in plain sight, just waiting for a moment to make a run for it. She doesn’t tell her that Rip already knows, and yet Sara can’t decide what she wants to hear.

“Yes,” is Ava’s answer, the same as always, and she barely needs a second to think it over. “It’s protocol.”

Sara nods, “of course it is.”

Her glib answer prompts a scathing reply. “Not all of us display an almost pathological need to disregard the rules at every turn.”

“Hmm, and yet you’ve had all those chances and you’ve still not said a word.”

Ava says nothing to that, focuses instead on finding her shoes.

“What exactly is this?” Sara presses.

She takes a breath, doesn’t meet her eyes, and answers. “A mistake. This is a mistake. And it won’t happen again, Miss Lance.”

She grins back, and it’s not altogether too kind, “you said that the last time.”

“And I won’t say it again.”

_Promises, promises._

 

:::::

 

There’s remorse on her face.

Guilt and self-loathing, but if he takes the moment to delve a little deeper, he thinks he catches a glimpse of a vulnerable heart, teetering the edge of a ravine and the oblivion that awaits below, reflecting back at him.

Rip’s not surprised.

He saw it coming, of course.

“I’m sorry,” Ava says.

“Why?”

She shifts on the spot, the answer is obvious at least to her mind, and so of course she’s unsettled by the unexpected digging but there’s a point he’s trying to make and he hopes she plays ball. He knows she will, and she doesn’t disappoint. “Because I should have told you sooner.”

“I already knew,” he admits.

And at that, she looks flummoxed to say the least.

“Sir? Why didn’t you-”

“Say anything? It’s not my place.”

Now he thinks she just looks irritated, as if there’s something obvious staring her in the face and she can’t quite grasp it.

“But you’re . . . but what about the Time Bureau-”

“Are not the Time Masters. You don’t need my permission to fall in love.”

And perhaps it’s the way his voice falters at the words despite his best efforts that turns Ava’s gaze sharp and assessing.

“I’m not in love,” she retorts, setting the trap.

He walks into it willingly.

“Oh trust me, Agent Sharpe,” he says with a sad smile, “you most definitely are.”

 

:::::

 

Sara’s not surprised to find herself back here, and yet she can’t help herself. In between gasps for air as she presses her forehead against hers, she has to ask.

“I thought you said this wouldn’t happen again?”

Ava smiles back at her and it’s so rare a sight that Sara doesn’t know what to do with it. “I told Rip. He knows. He doesn’t care.”

_He doesn’t care._

The words hammer inside her chest, and as if that isn’t enough, they squeeze around her ribs painfully and she wonders if there’s any air left in her lungs.

 _He’s a liar_ , a snide voice reminds her. _Always has been_.

“Sara?” Ava asks, tilting her head back a fraction, watching her closely. She mistakes her silence for doubt, disbelief, stunned euphoria.

It isn’t any of those.

“It’s okay,” she reassures, curling a stray strand of hair away from her face. “He said it’s okay.”

“Well that’s great,” Sara says, and tries to smile and make it look effortless.

It isn’t.

She hopes Ava doesn’t notice.

She does.

 

:::::

 

It’s one of those rare occasions where the Legends and Bureau work together and save the day. Admittedly, the success of it hinged on Mick and his rather God-given knack for thievery but he’d be damned if he gives him more than a “good work, Mr Rory” in acknowledgement.

The grin on his face and his grunted reply as he walks by placing a hefty slap to his shoulder tells him that perhaps the man is finally learning to read between the lines.

With Mr Rory’s departure, he’s left standing alone on the Waverider.

Alone apart from Sara, who remains determined to give him the cold shoulder.

She hasn’t spoken a word to him all day.

A breath leaves his lips on a sigh as she watches her wordlessly turn on her feet and retreat into the office. His old office, which hasn’t really changed a whole lot. Apart from a few knick-knacks that are Sara’s, added almost seamlessly to his own collection of trinkets, the place is the same and still feels like home.

He hesitates only a moment and follows after.

In hindsight, his terrible attempt at banter to break the ice hadn’t been the wisest of ideas.

No sooner does he utter the words, “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he’s greeted by a flying dagger, hurtling through the still air, landing not three inches away, firmly embedding itself in the antique globe brushing against the sleeve of his jacket. The tip of the dagger finds its home in the heart of the Atlantic Ocean, and he’s too distracted by the hammering of his own, the whistle of sharp metal cutting through the air still ringing in his ears and the offended squeak of the globe as it spins on its axis, to appreciate the symbolism.

Smartly, Rip decides not to remark with a ‘you missed’ given he knows well enough that she hadn’t. He swallows the words down, and takes a tentative step forward.

“Sara . . .”

“Where do you get off?!”

The vehemence behind the words are almost enough to make him stumble back a few steps, but he holds steadfast.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you-”

“Permission?” she spits out. “We don’t need your permission!”

 _Oh,_ he thinks.

“I never gave you permission.”

She bristles with the anger. “You have no right-”

He cuts her off with a step forward and a shake of the head as he bursts out, “no, that’s not what I meant! I meant that I told Agent Sharpe exactly that. It’s none of my business.”

There’s a split-second where he thinks she visibly recoils at the words, and it only serves to confuse him. There’s more to this that he’s not understanding, and he thinks there’s no time like the present to tackle the gaping chasm between them. And so he asks.

“The real question, Miss Lance, is why are you so upset?”

She simply stares at him, and he wonders if she’ll say anything at all. But then she does. Two words, that tell him nothing at all.

“You lied.”

“About what?”

She bites down on her lower lip and he can see her warring with what’s weighing her down. He realises then that it’s not just any _one_ thing, but she takes her pick from his multitude of sins and simply says, “when you left,” and stops. He puts the rest of the sentence together himself. They never really did talk about this, and it seems now is the time.

“Sara-” he breathes out, the only thing he can since the air around him is nothing but her. _Sara. Sara. Sara._ “I never meant-”

“Never meant _what_?” she spits out, and finally lets it all out. All that she’s been holding back from the shoddily patched up relationship he was a fool to think was on the mend. “Never meant it when you said I was a better captain, or when you insinuated that I was capable of leading this team _without you_ ; that our roles in protecting the world, this universe, _time_ ; that _our team_ , meant something?”

He shakes his head, words rushing out on a frustrated breath as he steps closer. “They do, _you_ do, I meant all of that.”

“You’re a liar, Rip. You always have been.”

He rubs a tired hand across his face, looks away and up at the ceiling, searching for the words, searching for something to make this right.

“Sara, forming the Bureau was never about passing judgement on you or the team. When I disbanded the Legends, I was trying to give you your lives back. Give you your choices back. So you didn’t have to do this anymore. Policing time should never have been your responsibility. It was always mine. Between losing,” he stops and sighs, and tries again. “Between losing Miranda and Jonas, and being betrayed by the Time Masters, I’d forgotten that.”

She stares back at him, and he thinks for a second he’s managed to get through to her, but then she’s taking a step forward, stopping mere inches from him, tilting her head back to meet his gaze head on, and he knows he’s wrong.

“And you did it again, Rip. Assumed you knew best for everyone. What we wanted. What we needed. You want to know why you were a terrible captain?” she literally snarls in his face, “because you never listen. You never ask us what we want.”

The words hurt more than any knife of hers ever could. Because he has listened. He’s listened to her, to them, so many times before.

Echoes of a past bounce off the metal and glass walls of the Waverider, conjuring up the images as if flipping through a leather-bound memory book. So many moments, and one steps out in sharp relief.

Because _I couldn’t have my crew thinking I cared more for myself now could I?_

And it’s not just that. No, because he has faith in them. Always has. Maybe, too much. Maybe Agent Sharpe is right, and his belief in Sara, in this team, is ridiculous. Simply misplaced fondness and an unwillingness to let go.

(He’s never been very good at that.)

“And what is it that you want Sara?” he asks, holding his breath.

Her face is exactly as he remembers. He marvels at how easily his mind has managed to summon up exact replicas of her at the most random of moments, how he still gets struck by the crystal clarity of her eyes, the little dimple in her chin. the infinite freckles for infinite stars. Nothing has changed he realises. Not really. Not this room. Not this ship. Not her. Not him. And not how he feels.

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

Something tells him the truth to his first question lies in those words.

He clears his throat and takes a step back. “Well, Miss Lance. You know where to find me when you figure it out.”

 

:::::

 

She’s been holding her breath for this exact moment the second it all started.

There’s always an End. Sara’s familiar enough with them to recognise when they’ve arrived.

“It’s for the best,” Ava tells her, locking away the sadness and hiding it away behind the stone-cold monument Sara had thought she’d broken her way through.

But it seems Agent Sharpe is an expert at picking up her crumbling pieces and putting herself back together again.

It’s not surprising.

Sara had been good at it too, once upon a time.

But this team. Rip. They’ve made her soft.

“For who?”

“For both of us.”

She shakes her head, leaning back against her desk, arms folding across her chest as a bitter snort of laughter leaves her lips. “Yeah. Right.”

“I’ll still be an Agent of the Bureau, I just won’t be a part of the team liaising with the Legends any longer.”

“You mean Rip’s reassigned you.” Her pulse spikes with anger, misplaced she knows even before Ava opens her mouth and corrects her.

“He had nothing to do with this. This was all my choice. I asked for the reassignment.”

“Why?”

“Because,” she laughs, and there’s not a trace of humour in it, “we both know I hate coming in last. So, I’m ending this before you do.”

Sara knows there’s a truth to the words. Her eyes flicker from Ava’s face, a face that has become unexpectedly important to her, and land on the antique globe in the corner. Her dagger still sits there in the heart of the ocean and it’s the rebelling beat of her own that asks, “who says I would have ended it?”

Ava doesn’t answer her, just rolls up the sleeve of her jacket and presses at the familiar device attached to her wrist.

“Maybe I did get this wrong,” she says then as the portal opens up behind her – a gaping doorway in the middle of the Waverider office leading to a non-descript horizon of trees and grass, a time and place she can’t put a finger to, and thus can’t follow. “Maybe he has everything to do with this.”

Sara opens her mouth to argue, but with a single step backwards she’s gone. Her last words echoing around the empty room is all she’s left with.

“You’ll figure it out.”

 

:::::

 

Rip falls into patterns, habits.

He’s done it before. It’s hard to break.

After Miranda and Jonas, it had been a self-destructive, one-minded pursuit for vengeance. It had left food and sleep a distant second thought.

It’s nowhere near as bad as that now. Though that isn’t to say he’s mastered the art of self-care by any means.

No. His responsibilities always take priority and so he spends most of his time at the Bureau – late into the evenings, and he’ll still be sitting there checking over daily reports, scouring the databases to make sure every anachronism that’s been dealt with hasn’t left any lasting scars to an already fractured and vulnerable timeline, only to then eventually fall asleep at his desk.

It hadn’t been until three months after the Bureau came together that he realised he’d been sleeping there. The cold truth was that the Bureau wasn’t the Waverider. Wasn’t home.

And so he had ended up renting a tiny apartment, manageable with his modest government stipend. With a bed and a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette, it’s all he needs.

He wouldn’t call it home either, but it’ll do.

No one knows where it is.

He’s never had anyone over.

And yet, somehow, he’s not surprised that she’s managed to hunt it down.

It’s only as he climbs the last few steps that he notices her through the wooden spindles of the banister, shoulder pressed to his door, blue eyes meeting his as soon as he stops on the landing.

He hesitates a fraction of a second before stepping forwards and retrieving his keys from his pocket. “And here I thought you would have just broken in.”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

His lips twitch but he hides it away, focussing instead on getting the door open, before standing aside to let her in.

“Yes well,” he says to her back as she steps through the door and stops to take in her surroundings, “there’s very little you can do to surprise me anymore.”

She’ll take it as a challenge, he knows.

It’s what he’s counting on.

He moves around her, comes to a stop beside the window. It’s not much of a view, but he has no use for one anyway. Folding his arms across his chest, he watches her perusal of the room. She stops beside the old oak sideboard. A single bottle of whiskey sits beside the lamp there, and suddenly he has an inkling of where this is going _._ He’s both terrified and thrilled. Surprisingly it feels good, but he doesn’t give it away.

“So, Miss Lance,” he says instead, with a burgeoning smile, “what is it that you want?”

It’s a risk.

But they’re ready for it.

And she makes it worth his while when she answers him.

“Join me for a drink, Mr Hunter,” she grins, “and maybe I’ll tell you.”

 

**End.**

 


End file.
